I lived. I died. I turned to stone. Now time has made my silence known.

I'm pushed through the lowest streets in Venice, and pulled up to snowy peaks.

The type of bread an ironic, even cynical, man might eat with his whiskey

Small and cozy, tucked away, In fields or woods I often stay.

Forty six and two, but not forty-eight. A person whose actions invite hate. Found in your belt, your chest, or your box. Often required even if you're as strong as an ox.